


No Angel

by evilpinkpen



Series: Proverbial [3]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-10
Updated: 2010-10-10
Packaged: 2019-05-31 07:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15114272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilpinkpen/pseuds/evilpinkpen
Summary: Thanks to an unusual diplomatic situation, Jim gets a taste of his own medicine and - with a little help from friends both new and old - realizes that Bones is his favorite flavor.





	No Angel

XxXxXxX

_Fools rush in where angels fear to tread._

XxXxXxX

"Why do I have to be here, again?" Leonard "Bones" McCoy dropped into the chair on Jim's left with a sigh that the young captain estimated was maybe sixty percent his trademark impatience, and forty percent genuine weariness. He offered his friend a sympathetic grimace—since Scotty had taken advantage of the relative calm during their week-long jaunt to Ilumyna to test a couple of his infamous "improvements," the engineers had been keeping Medical on its toes.

"Sorry, Bones, but Spock insisted." When the doctor just lifted an unimpressed brow, Jim quirked a wicked grin at him and leaned in conspiratorially. "You know, if one of you would just get around to declaring your passionate, undying love, we wouldn't have this problem."

He actually got  _two_  disgusted glares for his efforts: a Vulcan version that was faintly perceptible, and therefore priceless; and the one he'd come to think of as the "McCoy Classic." In other words, time well spent—though it sometimes worried Jim that the only thing he could get the two of them to agree on was their mutual dislike.

Their  _considerable_  mutual dislike—Spock had once accused the doctor of "epitomizing every quality that undermines humankind's claim to possess advanced reasoning abilities," which had seriously tested Jim's admittedly tolerant line between "entertainingly snarky" and "not kosher on the bridge." Not that Jim didn't understand, he really did—being forced to work closely with someone who made no secret of loathing you was a bitch, and Spock was human enough to be annoyed by the situation, but far too Vulcan to leave the feeling unrationalized. In typically arrogant Spock-fashion, he'd chosen to justify it with the assumption that the irrationality lay solely with McCoy.

Bones, for his part, still hadn't forgiven Spock—either Spock—for Delta Vega and that incident on the bridge afterward, and he'd made it clear that they could "take their  _extenuating_   _circumstances_  and shove 'em." Jim was pretty sure that Bones meant it, too; even though he'd referred to the doctor as a mother hen on more than one occasion, it actually wasn't a particularly accurate metaphor. Bones was more like a mama wolf when it came to the people he cared about or felt responsible for—and Jim didn't think it was hubris if he put himself near the top of both lists.

So, yeah, he got it, and he sympathized with both of them. But that didn't make him feel any better about the realization that someday, they weren't going to succeed in separating their personal animosity from their working relationship, and Jim was going to have to severely reprimand one or both of his closest friends and senior officers.

The wry look Bones gave him as their eyes met told him that at least part of his thought process had been visible to the doctor, and he glanced away again, clearing his throat unnecessarily as he noticed that the conference table had filled while his mind wandered. "So. On to the business at hand, then?"

"A most logical suggestion, Captain," Spock noted, dry enough to wilt a Saharan cactus. Jim appreciated the fact that he could practically feel Bones rolling his eyes, though he kept his own face gamely neutral and his eyes forward. "This meeting was called in reference to the impending commencement of official negotiations between the Federation and Procepis Six, known to the native sentient species as Ilumyna." He gave Bones a withering look. "Your presence was requested, Doctor, because the Ilumynarians hold practitioners of the medical arts in unusually high regard. They would therefore take it greatly amiss if the  _Enterprise_ , as the Federation's representative, failed to include its senior medical officer in the negotiation process."

"Sounds like a sensible species," Bones admitted grudgingly, after a long pause. "Still, I shouldn't have to tell y'all that I'm not exactly diplomat material."

"Allow me to assure you, Doctor," Spock began, his tone acquiring the edge that he seemed to reserve especially for Bones, "that your presence alone will be more than adequate. As always."

Jim didn't know whether to be impressed or annoyed by the smoothly phrased insult. Neither impulse distracted him from the awareness that Bones had gone stiff beside him, though, and his hand darted out to squeeze the other man's wrist in warning. Bones jerked angrily against the restraint, just once, then relented and sprawled back into his chair with that unconscious, rangy grace of his, giving the Vulcan his best  _I do not have time for your bullshit_  glare.

That cued the Vulcan to tense with insult in turn, and Jim fought the urge to sigh in exasperation. Impressed annoyance about covered it, where his XO and CMO's unmatched talents for needling each other were concerned. But he couldn't think of a damned thing he could do about it, without looking like he was taking sides. And  _that_  was not an option.

Especially since he knew exactly which side he'd take, if he could. He stroked his thumb apologetically over the inside of Bones' wrist before letting go and returning his attention to the miffed Vulcan.

It occurred to him, in passing, that the fact that no one else had so much as blinked at the by-play probably revealed several incriminating things about the interpersonal dynamics of his senior staff.

"Thank you, Spock," he said, finally—and if his own tone was more than a little dry, no one called him on it. "So, what can we expect from the Ilumynarians at the negotiating table? Aside from an inordinate fondness for doctors, that is?"

Spock's brow acquired the faint crease of distaste that it usually did, when the Ilumynarians were discussed. Though they, like the Vulcans, were a species of touch-telepaths, they had adapted a distinctly different approach to managing the ability. Rather than attempting to minimize and legislate tactile contact as the Vulcans had, the Ilumynarians reveled in it, preferring to immerse themselves almost continually in the thoughts and emotions of their fellows. The result was not a hive mind, by any means—their access to each other's consciousness was far too shallow for that—but rather a planet-wide civilization that possessed a remarkably consistent set of values, chief among which were self-disclosure and compassion.

Actually, now that Jim thought about it, it didn't surprise him that they valued doctors so highly.

"As a culture, the Ilumynarians place great import on symbolism and ritual. They particularly emphasize the creation of symbolic ties between otherwise unaffiliated groups and individuals, as they believe it fosters greater understanding amongst those involved."

"The same could be said of most species, Spock—including both humans and Vulcans," Bones pointed out, carefully bland.

"Indeed," Spock allowed, in almost the same tone. "However, the Ilumynarians have stipulated that such a tie be established between the crew of the  _Enterprise_  and the Ilumynarian ruling Clan before they will permit the negotiations to proceed."

"And I'm assuming this requires a ritual, of some sort?" Jim guessed.

"It does," Uhura affirmed, glancing to Spock for permission to take over the explanation. When he offered her a stately nod, she continued. "For all practical purposes, the Ilumynarians have determined that the  _Enterprise_  crew functions as a Clan, with the senior staff as its Council of Elders." She paused, and Jim had to grin at the thought of his ridiculously youthful senior staff as  _Elders_. "Ultimately, what the incredibly convoluted justification boils down to is that they want to adopt one of us as an honorary member of the ruling Clan," she finished.

"Awesome," Sulu muttered, while Chekov's eyes flew wide. Jim, on the other hand, narrowed his in thought.

"How about it then, Spock? Ever wanted to be royalty?" When the Vulcan went stiff with what appeared to be shock, he continued, "As a fellow touch-telepath, you would seem to be the natural candidate."

"With all due respect, sir, I must submit that such candidacy is not to my personal preference." Spock's voice was distinctly and uncharacteristically strained, and even Uhura looked chagrined. Jim glanced between the two with dawning suspicion.

"Alright, spill. What's wrong with this ceremony they have such a hard-on for?" he asked.

"Not…wrong, precisely. However, the ritual is of an extremely intimate nature, even by Terran standards. By Vulcan ones…" Uhura trailed off, glancing at her significant other with concern.

"So it contains a sexual component?" Jim frowned. That wouldn't completely rule out the participation of a willing crewman, but it complicated the hell out of the paperwork. Yeah, he figured it was safe to say that he did  _not_  feel the same enthusiasm for alien sex ceremonies that he might have back at the Academy. Fortunately, Uhura shook her head.

"Not sexual, no. Actually, the closest Terran equivalent would be ritual tattooing. But since the Ilumynarians engage in sustained telepathic communion with the adoptee during the process…"

Jim sighed and pressed two fingers against the suddenly throbbing pressure point in his temple. "Intimate."

Uhura nodded. "Extremely. Both physically, and psychically."

"Guess I'm the lucky guy, then," Jim said lightly—there wasn't a chance in hell he was asking one of his crew, one of his  _friends_ , to volunteer for a tattoo and mind-fuck campfire sing-along with the nice telepathic aliens. "Do you think my mom will mind?"

"Hold that thought," Bones interjected, voice grim, and Jim shot him a sharp glance. "When you say 'equivalent to tattooing,' I'm assuming that you mean the sub-dermal application of an indelible pigmented compound?"

"Yes, although they declined to share the exact nature of the pigment or the method of application," Uhura admitted. "The Ilumynarians are incredibly informal on the whole, but when it comes to their Clan rituals, they can be spectacularly touchy. The last Federation emissary almost instigated an interstellar conflict by inquiring too deeply into their marriage customs."

Bones' scowl deepened viciously. "Then you can damned well forget it, Jim. Most Ilumynarian chemical compounds don't play nicely with Terran physiology under the best of circumstances. With your allergies, it'd be tantamount to suicide."

Jim felt his own lips press into a grim line. "There's no chance of renegotiating this requirement?"

Uhura shook her head apologetically. "None. I got the impression that their leaders are already a little annoyed that only one of us will be accepting the honor."

"And it has to be a member of the senior staff?" Jim could see the thoughts shifting like quicksilver behind Bones' hazel eyes, and his heart dropped as the conclusion they were working toward came clear to him.

"No. No  _way_ , Bones. It's too dangerous!"

The incredulous look the doctor gave him held both annoyance and affection. "Did you  _really_  just say that to me, you hypocrite?" The meeting paused while Sulu succumbed to a sudden coughing fit and Chekov pounded him on the back, murmuring what Jim assumed was soothing nonsense in Russian.

When the red-faced Lieutenant had calmed, Bones continued. "I can't believe I'm volunteering for this idiocy—and for the record, I'm officially retracting that comment about the Ilumynarians being sensible, because  _screw_  that—but if  _any_  of us are going down there to get injected with top-secret alien voodoo chemicals, it's sure as hell going to be the one who can actually do something about not dying from it!" He crossed his arms and glared mulishly at Jim, daring him to argue—and the faint glint of fear in his eyes had Jim opening his mouth to do just that—but Spock spoke first.

"Captain, Dr. McCoy's suggestion is…reasonable." It wasn't the coveted adjective  _logical_ , and the words dragged in a way that suggested Spock had forced them out kicking and screaming. Still, when everyone—including Bones—had finished gaping, there didn't seem to be anything left to say on the matter.

That didn't keep Jim from spending the last 36 hours of the journey desperately trying to come up with an alternative— _anything_  that would let them avoid leaving Bones (who  _hated_  away missions, and just what the hell had he been smoking to go and  _volunteer_?) alone on a strange planet to "commune" with the goddamn locals and probably get poisoned. And Bones could call him a hypocrite all he wanted, because fuck that. It was  _not_  happening on his watch.

At least, that was his plan until Bones dragged him roughly into a supply closet on E deck and gave him a glare that held more than a little unhappiness.

"Look, Jim, if you really think I'm not competent enough to handle this mission, you need to just say so."

"What? No!" Jim exclaimed, startled and heartsick with the realization that he'd contributed to the self-doubt that was darkening his friend's eyes. "Hell, Bones, if the Ilumynarians value honesty half as much as Uhura claims they do, you're fucking ideal for the job." The wry twist that observation brought to Bones' lips eased the tightness in Jim's chest a little, and he bulldozed on. "I  _know_  that you can do this. You're one of the two most terrifyingly capable people on this ship, and that is seriously saying something. I just…" he trailed off, at a loss.

Bones just watched him with unwonted patience, his head tipped quizzically to the left and his eyes dark and intent, and Jim frowned at him with sudden uncertainty. "I just don't want you to have to," he finally offered. The lame explanation evidently elucidated more for Bones than it did for Jim himself, because the doctor's expression cleared.

"Well. Someone had to," he countered lightly, and Jim made a face at him.

"Yeah, yeah. Way to take one for the team, Bones." The doctor's parting glance was solemn, though the faint smile on his lips suggested that he hadn't meant it to be.

"You know better than that, Jim," he murmured, and Jim threw a spare filtration bolt-frame at the door that had swished shut behind him because, yeah, he did know better. He also knew that the bastard had just called him a hypocrite, again—and he'd been right.

Needless to say, Jim was fully prepared to hate the Ilumynarians the next day, when the senior staff beamed down for a "Welcome to Ilumyna" bash that proved every bit as informal as Uhura had promised. Unfortunately, they turned out to be an attractive, cheerful, and altogether engaging species, with pleasant, fluting voices and vestigial wings that coordinated brightly with their downy hair.

The jewel-tones made a sharp contrast to the stark black of the intricate tattoos that traced their arms, necks, and faces. Jim didn't realize he was staring bleakly at the patterns until Bones gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"Jim. They rescheduled the end of the universe, I promise." He met Bones' concerned eyes with a forcibly sunny smile.

"Of course. And hell, it's not like you can't remove them as soon as we're finished here, right?"

"Well. Maybe," Bones muttered, narrowing his own gaze analytically at the nearest Ilumynarian, and Jim felt his heart skip a beat.

"What do you mean,  _maybe_?" he demanded, but Bones was prevented from elaborating by the arrival of the Ilumynarian Matriarch.

"One is Captain James Kirk, the male who is the Patriarch of the Federation Clan  _Enterprise_ ," the Matriarch began, chirping cheerfully to the smaller female at her side. "Elder Kirk, one is my half-daughter Mrreena, the female who is honored to shelter your Clan brother."

Jim gazed at the woman who would be "adopting" Bones, with her merry eyes and crimson feathers just beginning to fade to rose—at the elegant black lines that wound around her throat and cupped her left cheekbone—and couldn't find it in himself to resent her. When he reached out to clasp her tattooed hand, all he felt was a sickened resignation, and the merriment in Mrreena's eyes faded as she perceived it.

_Goddamn it_ , Jim thought, and then desperately tried to clear his mind until the socially requisite ten standard seconds had passed and he could break the contact. Because he could  _feel_  her surprise and dismay, and he was pretty sure that neither reaction boded well for Bones' imminent situation.

The tiny Ilumynarian tipped her head at him in puzzlement, forcefully reminding him of Bones' patiently questioning look from the day before. He saw her eyes widen as she shared the memory, and she smiled gently at him. Understanding and respect flooded him before she released his hand.

"One wishes to dislike me," she fluted, softly teasing, and he glared at his boots and  _knew_  that he looked like a chastised toddler—but how the hell were you supposed to respond when the telepath that you were playing diplomat with called you out like that?

"It's nothing against you, personally," he muttered. Shit, he could already feel Spock and Uhura glaring daggers at the back of his head. But Mrreena just trilled a laugh and patted his cheek, gracing him with a wave of fondness.

"Yes. One can sense this." She turned to Bones, smiling warmly. "And one must be Healer Leonard McCoy, the male whom one is honored to shelter as her quarter-son." The doctor accepted the traditional handclasp with perceptible hesitation—and Jim winced internally, realizing that he hadn't exactly provided a sterling example for his crew—but his voice was steady as he replied with the greeting that Uhura had taught him.

"One is honored to receive the shelter of your Clan, Lady Mrreena." She laughed again, even more joyously.

"One truly means this—though not for the reasons that one would have us believe." Bones blushed slightly, glancing at Jim in desperation.

"Um…I'm sorry?" The Ilumynarian's mirth gentled again.

"Such is not necessary. To honor another with such purity is the first of blessings." She stepped back, her dark gaze shifting between the two of them before settling on Jim again. "One honors your fears for your  _Llmeena_ , Captain James Kirk. One will treasure him on your behalf." With that cryptic statement, she swept a low bow that clearly encompassed the both of them, and the gathered Ilumynarians burst into excited chatter and motion. Tugged gently into the bright maelstrom by Mrreena, Bones gave Jim one final glance over his shoulder, a crooked smile on his lips and carefully leashed panic in his eyes.

"Don't wait up, honey," he quipped.

"You're the one who'll be missing the  _real_  party, baby," Jim shot back. "Don't worry, we'll try to hide the evidence before you get back." He was relieved to see the panic ease, a little, before the swirling crowd blocked them from each other's view.

Nine hours later, most of the  _Enterprise_  crewmen who'd beamed down with them had returned to the ship, and only Spock, Uhura, and the occasional Ilumynarian sent to check on them remained to watch Jim pace.

"What's taking so long? It isn't supposed to take this long, is it?" he asked, not for the first time, and Uhura answered with the same surprising patience she'd shown all day.

"I can't be completely sure, Jim. The information that they shared with us was pretty minimal, remember? And, again, the situation isn't exactly—"

"If something went wrong, they'd tell us, right?" Her level stare informed him that she didn't appreciate being interrupted. "Sorry, sorry. But, seriously, if he really did get poisoned or some shit, we'd know by now. Wouldn't we?" She just sighed, propping her chin against her palm with a smile he couldn't quite interpret, and he paused in his pacing to direct a kick at the wall with a frustrated groan. "Jesus. If he survives, I'm going to  _kill_  him! What the hell was he thinking, volunteering for crazy alien ritual shit and disappearing for hours like no one's going to fucking worry, and if we don't hear something soon, so help me I'm going to—"

Spock, who had already observed several such rants on the part of his captain with increasingly perceptible disquiet, surged to his feet and took the two long strides necessary to bring them face-to-face.

"Please forgive this intrusion, Captain," he said—a pointless formality, since he was already placing his fingertips against the meld points on Jim's face.

Startled and intrigued, Jim managed to choke out, "Yeah, sure," even though the Vulcan hadn't exactly been asking for his permission—a fact that he fully intended to file away for future reference. It occurred to him that Spock was guilty of a little hypocrisy himself, disapproving of the Ilumynarians when both versions of him were so liberal with their own abilities. Still, Spock only indulged in the most polite and superficial of melds, and Jim barely felt the contact before the Vulcan pulled away again, his non-expression stony.

"Lieutenant," he intoned, his voice as flat and hard as his face had become, "When the Ilumynarian Mrreena was conversing with the Captain and Dr. McCoy, she utilized a word that the UT was unable to translate."

" _Llmeena_ ," Uhura confirmed, softly.

"What is the significance of this term?" he demanded, and Jim nodded agreement.

"Yeah, I'd forgotten about that. What was she calling us?"

Uhura met her boyfriend's glare with her own eyes narrowed warningly. "It means exactly what you think it does, so you may as well be gracious about it, Spock." The Vulcan flinched in the same unconscious way that men of all species did with confronted by a female using that particular tone, and Jim hid a grin. Uhura glanced at him, and her voice softened again. " _T'hy'la_."

After a frozen pause, Spock nodded once, stiffly, then turned and strode out of the room. Uhura sighed.

"I've heard that before. It's some kind of Vulcan endearment, isn't it?" Jim asked, wary and curious of his first officer's reaction to the word. Uhura shook her head.

"It's slightly more complicated than that. Most Vulcans don't use terms of endearment—at least, not in the way we think of them.  _T'hy'la_  is a title, like spouse or sibling or friend. Actually, it encompasses all of those, and no species who recognizes the relationship throws the term for it around lightly." The look she gave Jim was compassionate and serious. "Basically, Mrreena was acknowledging the depth of your bond with Leonard, and promising on behalf of her people to respect your claim to each other."

He looked at the linguist with blank shock. "But I…we…I don't have any 'claim' to Bones." She just shook her head with sympathetic amusement.

"They're telepathic, Jim. As much as they love ritual, they understand better than most that some things don't have to be official to be true." She sighed again, looking out the door. "Speaking of telepaths, I should probably go after our big baby." Jim laughed, but his thoughts were still whirling. Actually, it was only getting worse, because he recognized the loving exasperation in her tone.

Bones used it on him, all the time. How the hell had he never realized? He shook himself, trying to recover some semblance of captainly equilibrium.

"Yeah, about that. His little temper tantrum isn't going to be a problem, is it?" She shook her head again, her expression hardening.

"No. I'll talk to him."

"All this just because he and Bones don't get along?" He heard the annoyed disappointment in his own tone, and Uhura glanced away.

"He…disapproves of your friendship with Leonard." She shrugged, and he got the impression that she was a little embarrassed on her boyfriend's behalf. "Well. He's wrong about that, anyway." He gave her a searching look.

"Then you don't? Disapprove, that is." She gave him a measuring look of her own in return as she stood.

"Do you know what set him off in the first place?" she asked, and Jim shook his head. "Your little performance there, with the pacing and the fretting and the completely nonsensical threats? Leonard does the  _exact same thing_  when he's the one left hoping that you'll come home safely—which you have to admit happens much more frequently."

"Nyota, I have no idea what that's supposed to mean," he said plaintively, and she paused for a moment on her way out the door.

"It means, I don't anymore," she replied, before leaving him alone with his scattered thoughts.

He barely had time to settle into one of the low-backed Ilumynarian armchairs and begin brooding properly before he felt the weight of someone's gaze on him again. He looked up sharply, only to meet tired hazel eyes.

"Bones!" he exclaimed, leaping up and rushing across the room to the inner door where the doctor had propped his rangy frame. "Fucking say something next time! What the hell?"

"Sorry," Bones muttered, his voice a little rough with exhaustion. Jim raked him with a concerned gaze before reaching out to cup his cheek, noting with surprise that every inch of visible skin was completely unmarked. Bones leaned into the touch, his eyes closing briefly, and Jim stroked his thumb gently over the high cheekbone.

"That bad?" he asked, his momentary relief fading quickly. Bones shook his head.

"Nah. Just nice to feel a human touch, after…all that." Jim nodded and began to shift his hands to the other man's arms, but hesitated with a questioning look. Bones shook his head reassuringly.

"Back. They decided that a…non-traditional design would be more appropriate, under the circumstances." Jim nodded his understanding, and pulled his friend gently away from the doorframe. Sliding his grip down Bones' arms to his hands, Jim tugged the doctor over to the largest of the Ilumynarian couches, noting the pained caution that his movements betrayed with unhappiness.

"And what circumstances were those, exactly?" He settled Bones carefully onto the middle of the couch, with his side to the back, so that they sat knee-to-knee.

"Mostly, the fact that my  _Llmeena_  strongly disagreed with the idea of them marking my face, or so I'm told," Bones said wryly, trying to hide a wince as he shifted. "Superficial bastard. Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

Jim grinned at him. "You're welcome." His amusement faded as he continued to observe the shadows under Bones' eyes and the slight glassiness of his gaze. "I'm guessing you were right about not being able to remove it, then?"

"Not a chance in hell. The only methods that'll have that bitch off entail some pretty extensive skin grafts." Bones made a face. "I think I'd rather just live with it, thanks. Fortunately, I don't have a lot of cause to take my shirt off in public."

Jim ran a hand reassuringly down his arm. "Oh, come off it. It can't be  _that_  embarrassing." Bones snorted.

"The hell  _you_  say. Mind your damned business, Jim," he replied, his tone rich with an irony that Jim didn't quite understand.

"Hey, no one made you volunteer for this, Bones," he shot back, nettled. "I had it covered—since,  _obviously_ , you were wrong about the whole poisonous ink thing."

The tense silence that followed that declaration continued long enough for Jim to begin to feel fidgety.

"It was toxic as all hell, Jim. Just not fatally so," Bones finally said, quietly. "After they picked that fear out of both our minds, they had one of their own healers analyze the compound's effects on human physiology. When they realized what it would do to me, they let me take precautions. I'm doped up on antihistamines, anti-inflammatories, and pain killers like you wouldn't believe." He gave Jim another wry smirk. "Then again, it got me a free pass on the post-ritual orgy, so maybe that's all for the best."

Jim choked out a laugh. "Shit. I wondered why you came back alone." He brought his hand back to the doctor's face, growing solemn. "Shit," he repeated, with feeling. "I'm sorry. Thank you." Bones just nodded, his increasingly unfocused eyes sliding closed again. "I guess that means that this isn't the best time to talk about the whole  _Llmeena_  thing, huh?"

Bones' eyes snapped back open and he started to jerk away, only to arrest the motion with a soft gasp. Despite going white as a ghost, though, he glared at Jim and batted at his hand when the younger man reached out to steady him.

"I'm  _fine_ ," he growled, and Jim gave him a long, worried look, slightly taken aback.

"We have to talk about it sometime," he warned.

"No, we don't," Bones countered, his lips tightening into a familiar, stubborn line, and Jim sighed before flipping his comm open.

"Uhura, he's back. Are you and Spock ready to head out?" At her affirmative, he switched channels. "Scotty?"

"Aye, sir?"

"Four to beam up." He hauled Bones gently to his feet just as the pale glow of the transporter surrounded them. "Come on, old man. Let's get you home."

The next week was the most awkward of Jim's life, bar none—it even beat out that time when he got caught with his hand under his prom date's twin sister's skirt. Jim tried to avoid Uhura, Bones pretty successfully avoided him, and Spock was avoiding all of them. When they weren't avoiding each other, they were sniping at and about each other, and the rest of the crew tiptoed around the volatile quartet and wondered what the hell was going on.

Jim wasn't entirely certain, himself—and it was starting to piss him off.

Six days after they left Ilumyna, he dropped sullenly into the command chair at the beginning of alpha shift and announced, to no one in particular, "It's like high school, but without the adult supervision."

The statement garnered knowingly sympathetic looks from Chekov, Sulu, Hanlon, McAlister, and Xirecq—a little too knowing for comfort, actually. For their part, Spock and Uhura remained intently focused on their stations, though a distinct frown line was visible between the latter's brows.

Jim watched the following two minutes of silent but increasingly emphatic conversation among the rest of the bridge crew with no little amusement, and he wasn't particularly surprised when Sulu cleared his throat ostentatiously.

"So, Captain," he began, with studied nonchalance. "Dr. McCoy hasn't been up to the bridge much, this week. Is he feeling alright? After the ritual, and all?" There was genuine concern in several of the glances that were turned to Jim in anticipation, and his amusement faded.

"Dr. McCoy has been pretty busy this week. But he assures me that he's fine." Actually, he hadn't—Jim had gone behind his friend's back and asked Geoff M'benga about his boss's status. Which yeah, he felt a little guilty about, but it was sure as hell easier than facing down Bones' defenses. Especially since Jim wasn't really sure what had him so defensive, in the first place.

It took him several moments to realize that the entire bridge had frozen and was regarding him with shock, Spock included.

"What?" he asked, baffled. After another flurry of silent communication, it was Chekov who answered.

"You called him 'Dr. McCoy.' You  _newer_  call him that." The teenager was visibly distressed, and a quick glance assured Jim that he wasn't the only one. He groaned mentally, wondering how to reassure the children that, yes, mommy and daddy were fighting, but it wasn't anything they needed to worry about.

"Captain, if I might speak with you in private?" Spock's voice interrupted his frantic conversation with himself, and Jim fought the urge to bang his head against the nearest console.

"If you're just going to complain about our CMO some more, then I've got to go with no thanks, Spock. Because, quite frankly, all three of us have been guilty of a little  _illogical_  behavior, recently," Jim snapped. Spock regarded him impassively for a moment before continuing.

"Captain, I believe that your persistent avoidance of the need to formalize your relationship with Dr. McCoy is becoming detrimental to the functioning of this ship." Jim looked at the Vulcan blankly for several seconds, before turning an accusing glare on Uhura.

"Did your boyfriend really just tell me to man up and ask Bones out for the good of the  _Enterprise_?" The comm officer managed to maintain an admirably straight face.

"Yes, sir. I believe that he did."

"Your personal efficiency has decreased 17.6 percent since the commencement of your disagreement on the topic," Spock insisted doggedly. "Dr. McCoy's has decreased 15.9 percent in the same interim. There has been a resulting 7.4 percent reduction in shipwide morale. It is only logical to assume that these trends will be reversed upon the satisfactory termination of the circumstances which initiated them," he concluded.

He might as well have been reporting the ship's ambient temperature, for all the composed neutrality of his delivery, but Jim could see the tell-tale tension in his stance—it had bugged the hell out of the Vulcan to deliver that little speech. But he'd clearly decided that it was the right thing to do, so he'd bitten the proverbial bullet and done it, however grudgingly. It gave Jim a  _little_ more hope for the future of their merry band, at any rate.

He turned to offer an apologetic glance to Uhura, since he sure as hell knew who to thank for his XO's sudden change of heart. She smiled reluctantly at him, though clearly still annoyed behind the amusement.

" _Someone_  had to end the standoff." Her stern expression softened, just a little. "Now, go talk to him, Jim. The two of you just don't work as well, separately." Jim could see nods of agreement proliferating in his peripheral vision, but he was already scanning the crew roster for Bones' schedule.

"Spock, you have the conn," he tossed over his shoulder on his way out the door, indifferent to the satisfied smirks that his hasty exit left in its wake.

The five-minute walk to the CMO's quarters didn't grant him any particular enlightenment, so he just leaned on the door buzzer and hoped like hell for divine intervention. When the door didn't open, he switched to pounding and shouting.

"I  _know_  you're in there, Bones!" Which he did. It was the man's day off, and he always slept in on his day off. "So just open the damned door before I'm compelled to make a really embarrassing scene out here!" Thirty seconds later he was fully prepared to make good on the threat, when the door finally slid open and Bones dragged him into the room by his shirtfront.

"What the hell is your problem, Jim?" he hissed, as soon as the door had swished closed behind them.

"At the moment? You, actually." Jim observed the disheveled man, clad only in cut-off sweatpants and a ribbed white tank, and added, "You look fantastic, though."

God help Jim, did he ever. The shadows under those clear hazel eyes had faded, and Bones' motions had regained their careless grace, accentuated by the lean muscularity that his sleepwear revealed. The sleep-mussed hair and stubbled jaw loaned a rakish edge to features that Jim had secretly always considered just a little too pretty. The overall effect was thoroughly devastating, and more than slightly unfair, Jim thought.

"You don't say," Bones ground out, stepping back and crossing his arms defensively.

"Oh, I've got  _lots_  to say," Jim assured him, following right back into his personal space. "Let's start with the fact that I'm in love with you. In fact, I've been in love with you so long and so completely that I didn't even realize that was what it was until the Ilumynarians pointed it out. And I'm pretty much positive that you feel exactly the same way, so what the hell gives? What are you so damned afraid of, Bones?"

"At the moment? You, actually," the doctor said mockingly, before raking a hand through his hair with a shaky sigh. "Do you know what your problem is, Jim? It's that you have no self-preservational instincts whatsoever."

Jim blinked at him. "Okay. Leaving aside for the moment the fact that you know that's total bullshit, I'm really not seeing the relevance." Bones swung sharply away from Jim, leaving the other man to address his back—but not before Jim saw the pained resignation in his eyes.

"You've never been afraid of  _anything_ , have you? I'm starting to wonder if you even know what it feels like. So how the fuck do you expect me to answer that question in a way you can understand?"

Jim realized perfectly well what Bones was trying to tell him, but his attention had been arrested by the sight of his friend's back. The worn cotton of his shirt revealed the full extent of the Ilumynarian tattoo, a dark shadow that stretched from his shoulder blades all the way to the waistline of his shorts, and the harsh, needy apprehension that he'd felt during those hours on Ilumyna returned to Jim with a sickening clarity.

"I was afraid, back on Ilumyna. During the ritual. Waiting, wondering if you were alright. Hating that there wasn't a single fucking thing I could do if you weren't," he admitted, balling his hands into fists to keep them at his sides. The urge to touch, to reassure himself that Bones was right there, perfectly fine, was almost overwhelming.

"Good," Bones replied, flatly. "Maybe next time you're on the other side of things, you'll have a little more consideration for the rest of us." Jim forced a weak laugh.

"You'd do it again, wouldn't you? As much as you hated it, you'd do it again without a second thought."

"Yes," was the prompt response. Jim rolled that around in his mind, then nodded.

"Yeah. See, that pretty much scares the shit out of me. So, how does that fit into your theory?"

Bones sighed again, his shoulders lifting with the motion, shifting the shadow under his tank top. "Jim…"

"I want to see it," Jim interrupted. Bones twisted to glance back at him, startled.

"I'm sorry?"

Jim snorted. "No, you aren't. But it's pretty much my fault that you're wearing that ink, and I want to see it." Bones started to turn around, shaking his head, and Jim caught him by the upper arms to stop the motion.

"Nuh uh. Forget it, Jim." Bones attempted to twist away again, and Jim pulled the other man flush against his chest, laughing softly beside his ear. Bones tipped his head to glare at him from mere inches away, and Jim had to look away from those downturned lips before he did something that might not further his cause. "Yeah, you're hilarious. And since you did more than anyone else, including me, to try to keep 'that ink' off me, your justification is bullshit," Bones informed him, patently unimpressed.

"Very true," Jim agreed. "But I want to see it anyway." He tried to put all the need and concern he felt into the words. He wasn't sure why, but he suddenly  _had_  to know exactly what the Ilumynarians had done to Bones, to see it with his own eyes and reassure himself once and for all that it really was okay.

That he hadn't let Bones get hurt by letting him protect him.

He must have been successful, because Bones tensed in his arms—a strange, shivery stillness that left Jim aching to comfort him—before relaxing against him.

"Goddamn it, Jim. Why can't I stay mad at you?" he muttered, mostly to himself, Jim thought. He answered anyway.

"I've been trying to explain that to you for about ten minutes, now. Weren't you listening?" Bones gave him a disbelieving look, so he clarified the statement. "We're hopelessly in love. It's a pain in the ass, but there you go."

"No,  _you're_  a pain in the ass," Bones corrected him, but a wry smile was tugging at his lips. Jim looked at him expectantly, and he rolled his eyes. "Ah, hell.  _Fine_. But so help me god, if you tell  _anyone_ , I will make you suffer in ways that no sentient species has yet imagined."

"Bones, it can't possibly be that bad," Jim objected, loosening his hold to let his hands rest lightly on the other man's hips. Bones gave him a dark look over his shoulder, but proceeded to pull his shirt over his head.

For several moments, all Jim could do was stare at the revealed design—then step back to arms' length, his hands still on Bones' hips, and stare some more. The pattern was dizzyingly intricate, gorgeously executed, and completely unmistakable. Jim felt the grin stretching his face as he met annoyed hazel eyes.

"They gave you wings," he said, amused and delighted. Bones huffed an exasperated sigh and looked away.

"Honorary Ilumynarian, remember?" he replied, gruffly, but Jim could see the pink staining his cheeks.

"Yeah, but…seriously, Bones. Wings? Did you explain what that means, in human mythology?" The pink began to spread to his throat and ears, and Jim's grin got even wider.

"I'm pretty sure the thought crossed my mind, at some point," he admitted, with so much reluctance that Jim had to laugh out loud.

"That is so. Fucking. Priceless," he managed to gasp out—then sobered in a hurry as an irritated Bones tried to wriggle out of his grasp again. The brief tussle ended with them both in a tangle on Bones' couch, and he twined his fingers into the doctor's dark hair, holding his head still so that he could speak quietly beside his ear. "Shush, Bones. No sarcasm, here. It suits you." He loosened his grip to stroke lightly down the nape of Bones' neck. "Hell, if anyone on this crew has earned their wings, it's you,  _Llmeena_."

"We  _aren't_ ," Bones argued, and Jim remembered making the same objection to Uhura. How had she answered?

"'Some things don't have to be official to be true,'" he murmured.

Bones sighed and pulled away again, but without violence, resting his forearms against his knees. The position made a graceful arch of his back, and Jim couldn't resist the urge to reach out and trace the elegant upsweep of one tattooed wing along his scapula. The moment his fingertip brushed the dark lines, however, he found himself awash in unfamiliar emotions.

Respect, for a man who had the balls to decide what he wanted and just go for it, and the hell with the consequences. A deeply self-mocking jealousy, because he'd never been that man, and never would be. Pained resignation, because he knew perfectly well that someone like him could never hold the attention of someone like that for a lifetime. And a desire-drenched affection that said only a lifetime could even begin to be long enough.

The onslaught stopped, and Jim realized that he'd pulled away, startled. Bones' eyes were wider than he'd ever seen them, and his voice was rough when he finally spoke.

"The Ilumynarians' telepathy isn't a genetic trait. They induce it with the ritual tattoos," he observed, flatly. "Spock and the xeno team are going to have a fucking field day."

"Now who's acting like it's the end of the universe?" Jim commented. The glare he got in response was so bleakly angry that he reached out to stroke Bones' back almost automatically, desperate to know why the other man felt that way, and what he could do to fix it—immediately or sooner. Bones saw him reaching, let him, and Jim figured that was permission enough.

The rush of emotion was less startling, this time, but no less heartbreaking. Shame, because he was pretty sure that Jim had seen a few things that he wasn't particularly proud of thinking. Fury, that he'd been altered so drastically without his knowledge or explicit permission. Cautious hope that the powerful feelings he'd sensed in Jim might be enough to keep him from running as fast as he could in the other direction, despite this newest bit of insanity. And a sheer, growing pleasure in the warmth of Jim's hand as it stroked its soothing path along his spine.

The last caught Jim's particular attention—he could actually feel the phantom sensation against his own back, shivery and almost painfully sweet with Bones' wistfulness.

"That's the answer," he realized. Bones met his eyes warily, having caught just enough of his thought process to mistrust it. He smiled reassuringly at his  _Llmeena_ , his  _T'hy'la_ , reaching up to trace that tempting lower lip with his thumb. "Don't look at me like that. This isn't a bad thing, Bones—and I'm going to prove it to you." With that, he surrendered to the impulse he'd been denying ever since Bones had dragged him into his room, and pressed their mouths together.

The kiss didn't start out particularly chaste, and it sure as hell didn't stay that way. And soon, just as Jim had hoped, nothing passed between the two of them but need and pleasure when he stroked his hands over Bones' back—and it was impossible to feel where his pleasure ended, and Bones' began. Impossible to doubt the strength of the desire, the  _love_ , that fueled their need.

And only later—an impressive amount of time later, Jim noted with satisfaction—after they'd retrieved Bones' shirt to keep from overdosing on each other and collapsed together in an exhausted tangle on his bed…only  _then_  did Jim allow himself the slightly guilty thought that he owed the Ilumynarians the quadrant's most sincere thank-you note.

He had a sneaking suspicion that, back on Procepis Six, Mama Mrreena was laughing her brightly feathered ass off.


End file.
